A sunny day shines over the small, dreamy town, bringing the winter temperatures up a notch. Christine sits on her bed and types into her laptop. She still has to send off her term paper today and, as always, she writes this unpleasantness at the last minute.
She simply works best under pressure.
Her delicate fingers are dancing across the keys. A young man sits next to her. His honey-blonde hair falls into his face as he bends over a book. The side parted hair doesn't want to stay in place today as he is used to. Everyone has a bad hair day, and so does Raoul. He brushes a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs. He leans back and sinks into the mattress. “There's no point in any of this...” he mumbles, rubbing his face with his hands. Christine looks up, “Yeah, why do you have to study Business Economics for?” asks Christine, dropping onto the mattress next to him. “I didn't know what else to study...” he whines, grabbing a strand of Christine's hair and inspecting it. “You need to get your ends cut at last!”

“Yeah yeah... I know, the split ends are eating my hair. My poor, beautiful hair...”
“It's beautiful, but it would be even more beautiful if you finally used the conditioner I gave you!” he murmurs and sits up again. “Do you think Joseph will answer?” His voice trembles slightly. Christine puts an arm around her childhood friend. “He doesn't deserve you. You and your cute little mustache.” She taps the freshly grown mustache with her fingertip.
He lets out a soft sigh, then stretches his neck briefly and bends back down to his laptop, holding a finger over a paragraph in the book. Raoul and Christine have been friends since early childhood. One of the biggest connections between them is the fact that they had to grow up without a mother. While Raoul never knew his mother, Christine can only vaguely remember hers. Once again, she types something into the laptop. Then she stops and rubs her eyes. “Coffee?” she asks, Raoul types into his smartphone, he doesn't look up but nods in agreement.
Christine shuffles through the small apartment above the store. The house once belonged to her mother's father. Gustave and Christine inherited the house in the end. Originally, Gustave wanted to go back to Sweden and forget everything. But he didn't want to abandon the house or Christine. He simply couldn't.

Perhaps he didn't want to be abandoned too.

The old floorboards creak with every second or third step. She passes the stairs leading down to the store area. She hears Gustave's strong voice and his broken German. She listens for a moment as he talks passionately about a violin.
Violins have always been his lifeblood. The music he carries within him is not only a source of strength for him, but also for her. Sometimes she misses the evenings when they would sit in the kitchen and make music as a complete family. Her mother's voice was similar to that of a professional soprano at the opera. A wasted talent who had to be satisfied with working as a florist. Her parents never had the money for their daughter's musical education. A “real” handcraft suits a middle-class woman better. Besides, what was she kidding herself, once she became a mother, the work would be over.
Different times.
Different suffering.
Christine's mother put up with it until she met Gustave.
Until they got married, and she realized that this man would lay the world at her feet.
And the small flower store became a compromise between craftsmanship and a love of music. The Paganino.

The soft ringing of the front doorbell indicates that the customers are about to leave. They are all wishing a good day, and then the store is quiet again. Only the satisfied hum of Gustave can be heard. Christine continues her way into the kitchen.
The store is located in a quieter street, a little away from the hustle and bustle of the city center. But it fits in with the local ambience. A small music store selling records and CDs is right next door to Paganino. One house further on is a native bookshop, run by an old woman with a hunched back. She just doesn't seem to want to retire. Next to the bookshop is the street's most popular café. Café de Gianni celebrated its 50th anniversary just a few weeks ago. A street party was held and people drank and danced long into the night. And every morning, the smell of fresh pastries wafts through the small, cobbled street.

Two combat boots shuffling over those cobblestones, carried by two lanky legs. Next to him, on a thin rope made of various plastic bags that have been twisted together, is a small golden dog. The punk shuffles past the café, then the bookshop and stops at the record store, staring through the large shop window. A soft sigh escapes from behind the mask. Why is he here, he has no money anyway, he doesn't even own a CD player or anything like other punks. Lost in thoughts, he turns around, takes a few steps back and stops in front of the Paganino. Gustave is standing in the shop window, trying to replace a light bulb. The store owner lowers his eyes to his potential customer and pauses. He points his finger at the punk and seems to shout something. The homeless man looks around and then points his finger at himself. The man nods and waves him over.

Inside?

Me?

But...

The punk shakes his head and takes a step back. Gustave jumps down from the small stepladder and hurries to the door. “Wait, Pojke!” he shouts. The stranger stops a few meters away. Once again, the punk had intended to disappear. This time he doesn't seem to succeed. “Come on!” calls Gustave and waves at him again. The punk stares back for a few seconds, then his uneven eyes blink. The little dog next to him plops down on his bottom and yawns. “Come on, come on! I've got something for you!”
“And what?” asks the punk suspiciously. “What you've lost!” Gustave grins broadly, “Come on!”, and with that Gustave disappears back into the store.
The young man hesitates, but then sets off. This day couldn't be worse than the last few days. He has been looking for a dry, warm place to sleep for the past two weeks. Since the underpass at the main station has been monitored by security at night, there is no longer any chance of finding a comfortable place to sleep through the cold nights. He gently pulls on the lead and the little dog gets moving too.

The shop doorbell jingles as he enters. He had never seen the inside of the store before. Only the garbage, the side alley and the show window are familiar to him. He lets his gaze wander as he stands uncertainly in the entrance area. “Come in!” Gustave calls from a distance. “Where are... You?” the punk calls back, wiping his thick boots on the doormat in the entrance area. His uneven eyes are fixed on the violins. He steps a little closer to one and examines the violin's curved sound holes. “It's beautiful, isn't it?” asks a voice behind him, and he moves around. “Here.” Gustave stretches out his hand, the young man automatically raises his hand, and he feels something cold and familiar in his palm. “How... did you?... Where... did you find it?” he asks with a trembling voice. He hastily puts the medallion in his pockets. “At the garbage,” Gustave replies with a broad smile. “I can fix the clasp if you like,” he offers. The punk observes his face, “What do you want for it?” he finally asks. “Company.” Gustave's grin widens, “Come on, Pojke.” He puts his hand on his thin shoulder and, without warning, the homeless man slumps under him and backs away. He trips over his dog and crashes into the violin display.
Wood splinters.
Strings snapping.
And a surprised outcry echoes through the store.